Perfect
by watercolour dream
Summary: Sometimes it is hard to find true beauty in ruin. Sometimes it takes a girl who dreams of impossibilities to show you how. Dean/Luna. One shot in their time at Shell Cottage.


**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

><p>He could see her slight frame crouching beside the little elf's grave, laying a chain of lavender on the mound of earth, and hesitated for a moment. He leant against the doorframe, watching her as her lips moved with a bright speed, chattering away to the little elf. He wondered for a brief moment whether he should turn back, leave her be, but this thought was stopped when she paused, her head turning towards him, her dirty blonde hair flicking out in the wind, as though the little House Elf had told her that he was there, watching, always watching.<p>

Luna turned back to the little mound of dirt, murmured a pleasant farewell, then stood to walk towards Dean. It never ceased to awe him, the way she glided over the sand, glowing, as if she was enchanted, her eyes bright and wide and filled with dreams and mysteries.

Luna stopped oddly close to him and peered up into his kind brown eyes. He could never understand how she did that – made him feel warm and homely, just with her presence, as though there wasn't a war going on out there, as if he wasn't hunted, as if secrets hadn't become a way of life, as if they were just them – Dean and Luna – and this was just a cottage at the sea and the dread he felt was just his imagination.

Her head turned to the side, inquisitive. "Shall we walk?" she asked breathlessly.

Dean nodded, but he couldn't find his voice. Luna tugged on his hand, entwining her fingers with his, and led him down the winding, sandy path to the shore. She skipped in front of him, stopping to sniff flowers and peer into bushes, pointing to empty spaces and announcing for him the creature that lived there, her words airy and bright and peaceful. He wondered for a moment where her mind wandered to, and whether he could go there too, and how she managed to find beauty in everything although so much was wrong. For a moment, he wondered what was worse; an absent father who didn't care and a breadth of questions, or a loving father torn from his child in battle. For a moment, he wondered how she did it; stood strong even though she must be hurting so much.

They had reached the shoreline, and Luna let go of Dean's hand to pick up a small shell, barely the size of a Galleon, something that Dean would have overlooked, never noticed, never even cared to have seen –

Luna straightened up and turned to Dean, placing the little shell in his hands – pure white, pristine, perfectly rounded and patterned. Dean looked at it, not knowing what to do, lost in his thoughts and the tangle of words he couldn't say.

Luna's eyes met his, and he saw the sparkle, the warmth she held through the pain, the strength she kept through the worry, the bravery and hope that overshadowed the doubt. He wondered how someone could have such an air of certainty, but a mind of questions and impossibilities and wonders. He wondered, but couldn't answer.

"Perfect," she said, looking into his brown eyes and counting the gold flecks in them, curling his fingers around the shell in his palm. "The world is still beautiful. Even in the darkest times, true beauty remains. Not all of it is ruin."

_True beauty_, he thought to himself, looking at Luna as she knelt down in the wet sand, licks of water ebbing around her feet. _I know what true beauty is_.

Luna had gathered more shells in her palm, holding them as though they were little pieces of her heart, and giggled when she stood up again, grabbing at the air around Dean's head.

Dean shook himself into focus, finally speaking. "What is it?"

"Wrackspurt," Luna laughed, trilling and wonderful and warm. "They are always buzzing around."

And Dean laughed, loudly and truly and deeply until his sides ached and his lungs strained and his chest heaved. And soon Luna was laughing too, and neither knew why, and he thought on a whim as they ran along the sand and crawled through the gardens and climbed through the trees, that if they were rain, he was drizzle, and she was a hurricane, and they didn't retire until late that evening, with leaves in their hair and sand on their clothes and their pockets filled with little pieces of perfection.

* * *

><p><strong>I hope you enjoyed it. Reviews would be wonderful.<strong>


End file.
